


Inherit the Wind

by awildlokiappears



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awildlokiappears/pseuds/awildlokiappears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like so many of his folk, Stormyr wanted a little wealth, a little freedom, and the lure of the open road could provide every bit of that...provided Catrea doesn't bollocks it all up. Set in the Collegium Chronicles -plot bunny changed colors on me-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Soft footfalls marred the still air; it was rare for folk to venture into Grim Dale Forest, even this close to Shimmer, and Stormyr lay quiet, feigning sleep. They paused, then moved again; an opportunist, as suspected. No thief, though bandits were a daily problem here, and no murderer; the feet, clad in worn calfskin, lined with fur, moved around his body gingerly, as though he might awaken at any moment. He heard whomever it was picking through his tiny stores of food; a faint puff of dismay nearly made him smile, but he held his face slack. With a heavier tread, the stranger departed, leading away some sort of animal outside, apparently bedecked with a few bells, since they rang out softly in the forest air, though strangely muffled, and at last, the young man could sit up. He shook off the blankets, gazing at the door, then put thoughts of the stranger out of his mind and freed the fire from its banked coals..._

"Boy!" Stormyr's eyes snapped to the caravan leader's call, and he clucked for his gelding to trot up to the large man, a salute bouncing in time with the paint's gait.

"Aye, sir?" Lead-Guard Yungan cursed under his breath as his own gelding fought to break the canter he was in. Kneeknocker always did enjoy making his rider's journey hell, for all that he was an excellant guard-horse, supposedly bought from the far-off Shin'a'in three years ago, when the caravan had risked a journey to the Anduras Faire. A journey they were making once more, this time with a new host of caravan guards, and enough spoils from the forest that filled most of Drammin Prefecture that they stood a good chance at making more than just a little profit. This would also be Stormyr's first time traveling so far, though he'd run the roads with the wagons and traders for nearly five years now...he eased Splash out of the way long enough for the other gelding to fight, then brought his horse back into line, offering Yungan a faint nod and wince of sympathy. The man himself grimaced, and forced the beast to settle; he didn't care to rough up his animals, but this one horse couldn't be dealt with otherwise. Not even horse-talking worked with him.

"Thanks, m'lad..."

"Not a'tall, sir. Wha's on yer mind?"

"Need a runner ta scout ahead an' find us a place fer the night. Think you an' ol' Splashy here 're up ta it?" He only grinned in reponse, and nudged the paint into a faster trot, waving a hand at the older man.

"Be back n' haf a mark!" He called over his shoulder, settling in what he called his watching pose...and wondered why his mind had thought of that day. It hadn't been particularly special, even after the stranger had left. It was just...another day. Hell, he'd had opportunists all the time, lost travelers and the occasional hermit, even a few bandits from time to time. Why that  _one_  day had to keep popping up...He pushed it aside with a disgusted sniff, and let his eyes rove over the landscape around him, taking note of the change from the deep, dark forest. It was a bright morning out here on the Pewtergrass Plains, the silvered grasses that made up its name reflecting the sunlight, throwing his expectations of a morning nearly as dark as night entirely out the window. They'd camped on this road before, though, and since they were halfway to Quion, heading north on the Yekal Trade Road...there should be a large, well-traveled campsite at the crook up ahead, a nice, wide, stone-paved oval that faded into yellow and black sand at the bottom of the clear brook that curved like a friendly kitten around it, then darted off into the plains east of them. The first time he'd camped here, he'd marveled at the large swathes of flagstone and brickwork, curious about who would go to such trouble for a simple trade road. He'd said as much, and the mage who'd been hired to help protect the traders had laughed, made a gesture...and from the center of the oval, a blue glyph had appeared, rising merrily above the surface.

"This is the mark of a builder-mage, and from the Argent School in Bathe, if I'm not mistaken. Pity the school fell to ruin; their magery was among the finest, and nearly always for the good of the land, or the people." With that, Stor had been thrown headlong into a discussion about magic and mages, and when they'd left Ulei in Mekkam, he'd been sorry to see him go. He had been fifteen summers then, and that had been only his second journey with the traders. Now, at twenty, he was verging on taking leadership among the caravan scouts; he'd been under Yungan's wing for the last two years, and training to deal with bandits, other traders, the rare shepherd and hermit since then, learning strategy and tactics, and been in no few battles himself. A long scar curved down over one eye; it was white as the moon now, and lucky him, hadn't done more than cut into his eyelid, and his long black hair was tied back in a low tail, braided down his back, an old Guard hat pulled low over his eyes to shade them. He was dressed in simple brigadine armor and light chain over a loose tunic and trews, all of it cream and brown, the better to ease into the early summer heat. He was, as his fellows called him, a perfect match for the horse he'd picked, and he'd endured the laughing and jesting with an easy heart.

"Ho, the rider!" He turned in the saddle and grinned at Mikka; kid might as well have been his baby brother, they looked so alike.

"Ho, th' scout! Wha's th' matter, Mik?" The younger boy tossed his own shaggy black hair out of his eyes, and glanced up, bright blue eyes glittering. In that, they differed; Stor's were a soft green, shot through with silver.

"Nothin', but Yungan wants to know what the camp looks like. Says the traders is gettin' grouchy." Stor rolled his eyes and clucked Splash to move a little faster, topping the ridge at a trot, Mikka's flashy mare close behind. Pointing down at the familiar campsite, he raised his other hand up and loosed the neckerchief that acted as a balaclava during the windy, dusty days, and spun it over his head, the bright white fabric easy to see even from a distance. A brief flash meant no luck; a wave meant bandits. But twirling it like he was doing now, that meant that they'd found a good place, safe, with fresh water. At Yungan's returning flash, this from his gilded shield, both youngsters set off towards the campsite, tumbling out of their saddlepads to begin tearing up grass for fuel, collapsable buckets coming out of saddle-bags to be filled with the clear spring water. Night came quick enough still, and they had a long way yet to go, but there was no need to hurry; Anduras Faire lasted from now to fall, bringing traders from all over Velgarth. No, there was plenty of time to rest, now, and it had been nearly six moons since they'd had the luxury of song and dance; the Traders of Shimmer were long overdue.

* * *

Three weeks later, Stormyr was wondering just what he'd gotten himself into when he'd agreed to join up with the caravan guards. It hadn't been a surprise to him that they'd been attacked shortly after Quion; hell, they'd anticipated Naavar's bandits, just based on the reports. But the second attack had left wounds and one dead guard in its wake; none of the bandits had survived. The third had been less severe, but Mikka had taken the brunt of the force from the biggest of the bastard's sword swing, and was laid up with a broken arm and a nasty fever. The fourth had been the worse...Splash slipped, and as the paint regained his footing, he jarred his rider's broken left shoulder, causing Stormyr to choke, his eyes glazing over with agony again. There was no room in the wagons; Yungan lay dead behind them, buried in a hasty grave, while only Haun rode, and Kida and Olli were with Mikka. Thanks be to the goddess, though...this road, once they had passed into Jkatha, was manned with Road-Guards, and after making a report, Stormyr led them on, bolstered by the presence of the Guard and some serious painkilllers...which were wearing off, now that he thought about it.

He looped the reins around the small saddle horn in front of him, and reached back with his good arm, wincing as he stretched, and found the small bottle. Argonel, from the depths of the Grim Dale Forest, more potent, and yet, less deadly than the stuff these northerners used. He'd done the distilling himself, between long practices with bow and blade, and longer runs using the variety of horses and ponies their little band had kept. Speaking of horses...Kneeknocker was tethered to the back of the heaviest wagon, surprisingly docile now that he wasn't being ridden. No matter; Stormyr had every intention of selling him once they hit the faire. The traders were largely unscathed; a few bruises, some scratches, and their cargos a little beat up, but no real losses...for which Stor blessed his goddess again. There would be more to go around of their payment, since only the five of them remained, but it was blood-money, pure and simple...a fact that ground against his deep-set morals, but he needed to eat, and more importantly, he needed a Healer. An injury like his would be the death of his job, and probably the death of him, if he didn't get it set properly and cleaned out. The Road-Guard could only do so much...

"Oy, laddie." A veteran of the Guard rode up next to him, and he fought to keep his mind from getting too fuzzy from the drugs. "How's th' shoulder?"

"Hurts." He replied shortly, closing his eyes against another spasm. "How long till we make th' Faire?"

"Another two marks, iffen yer bloody traders'll hurry up. Iffen no, then we'll be there by supper." The older man was friendly enough, and seemed to understand that he was in too much pain to care much for conversation. His accent was rough, but clear enough to understand; not so surprising, since the trader-language had largely solidified over the years. It had become an unspoken agreement amongst both the Trader's and the Guard's Guilds throughout the smaller contingent of southern countries to use one language for the traveling caravans and their many destinations. Several nomadic tribes had followed suit, and now someone from as far away as Shimmer could travel easily to the very city of the Shin'a'in with little more than a horse, rations, and a job. He smiled slightly, thinking of the small village he'd grown to love so much...when another jarring stumble nearly made him bite through his lip. The Guard noticed, he thought absently through the roaring pain, and the older man's presence faded as he cantered back towards the traders. He could hear the hoarse yelling between two men, then the rumble of the wagon wheels increased as the trader chieftain coaxed a little more speed out of his stout draftmares. Just a little while longer...

* * *

He hissed a little as the Healer poked and prodded around the broken bone; he'd been lucky that it hadn't punctured his flesh. Soon enough, though, a deep warmth spread from where the old woman had pressed her palm, and he relaxed, allowing himself to be laid down on his right side. The lady's apprentice held him steady as her master finished setting the bone, and he opened one eye, smiling wryly.

"I hope I may be a better patient than most." His accent was still there, but less notable than it used to be; he'd practiced Jkathan for a long time on the roads, as well as Shin'a'in, Ruvanian, and even Rethwellen. The girl smiled faintly, and he heard a chuckle from the Healer.

"Aye, laddie, that you are. I've not seen a youngster as calm as you be in a few years."

"I have had a great deal of practice in the art."

"So I can see...Your friends are being treated as well, but you'll have to stay at least a fortnight. We want to make sure you're healed up properly afore you head back out on the road."

"Fair enough. I've no complaints, save that I do need to go pick up our payment and arrange an inn for the others. May I do that after my healing today?" The lady laughed outright, and he could almost see her nodding.

"Aye, as long as you be avoiding a horse." At that, he sighed ruefully.

"You do not need to remind me of  _that_ , lady-Healer." Two hours later, heavily drugged and his arm slung across his chest, followed by Mikka and Haun, Stormyr turned into the large tent their traders preferred, making for the Chieftain in the back. The large man roared a welcome, but his voice softened as he drew them into the private portion, the shade a cool breath against Stor's still-feverish face. He'd nearly forgotten Yungan's warning about how warm the western lands were compared to their native high plains and forest. B'mur shook each of their hands, careful of Stormyr's, and left a large, clinking bag when he drew away.

"Your fee, plus a reward for fighting so bravely on our behalf. I also took the liberty of corraling the incredibly stubborn monster of your late leader; your other beasts are in a separate paddock, safe. You require accomodations, yes?"

"Aye, that...My thanks, Chieftain."

"Tis nothing, lad. You did your jobs, even injured. Use my name at the Silver Bell; it's a newer inn, opened by them Valdemarens, and they know me well. They'll let you stay till you're all on your feet again." Stormyr felt the knot in his stomach that had been riding with him since the last attack melt away. He didn't know what a 'Valdemaren' was, but he was willing to bear anything in order to get off his feet and  _sleep_.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Momma." The woman turned and smiled brightly, reaching down to pick him up, her hands stained permanently from the dyes she made for the village. He always liked to look at her hands; they were an ever-changing map of colors, from soft blue to a flashy red, sage green to a jaundiced yellow. Today, they were purple; she was adamant that such a royal color should be diluted as soon as possible from the fungi she'd harvested this morning. He giggled as she nibbled on his ear, her hands crooking into claws._

_"You are so cute, I could eat you up!" His giggles turned into shrieks of laughter, as she moved to his belly, blowing raspberries and tickling him, though they were interrupted by a curt knock at the door._

_"Madam Dyer? I must have words with you." With a sigh that saddened her smile, she set him down and smoothed the folds of her long tunic; she always wore breeches and an old shirt while dying, usually cinched in with a sturdy belt. The villagers never minded, but the occasional travelers almost always frowned at her; their women wore long skirts and tight bodices, too constricting for any but the simplest of embroideries. She didn't care much for the ladies, but she knew how to sell as many of her dyes to them as possible...when their husbands weren't leering at her, or looking down their noses. She was a widow with a small boy; she was pretty, had a small house of her own, and had a thriving business...and not a male relative in sight to 'control' her. It was only when he was older that he understood the words she had written about those days..._

The diary's pages were translucent in the warm morning light filtering through the stretched calfskin that served as their window, and just as fragile as they looked. Stormyr sighed, and leaned back against the wall, tipping his chair up a little. They'd been here a week, and the five of them were nearly completely healed; he had three more visits with the lady-Healer, and another three or for days before their stay at the Bell was in need of an extension. He winced as his shoulder grated; it was set, and the bones knitting, but the muscular damage was still very much there. He sighed and looked over the delicate, curving hand of his mother's copperplate, only now wondering where she'd learned it from. The village had been nearly entirely literate, even if it was in varying degrees, but her handwriting was by and far the best of the lot, better than even the priest's.  _Nobility, at the very least of the minor set. And I know she came from a different land; she said that Da had brought her back with him..._ Ah, well. His mother had had her skills, even after his father's death, and he'd helped her every way that he could. He sighed again, rubbing his scar with one hand. Why think about her now? Why drag this tiny book out of its oilskin and read through the last entries over and over again? He knew she'd gone; he even knew why.

Viena Dyer had been taken away by the Altvari City-Guard, on counts of extortion and embezzling, leaving her tiny son the weather the storm of her passing. She had left calmly, perhaps too aware that her child would be terrified and likely hysterical if she was, and left him in the care of the Innkeeper and his wife...and the whole village, having loved them both so deeply, took charge of the boy, and ensured not only his survival...but his growth, and happiness. He had repaid them in kind, taking up the art of cultivating the herbs and fungi his mother had used, and occasionally creating cakes of dye for the village women, but never more than that. He had no desire to end up the gaol himself. Then the traders came through again...and he'd met Yungan. He felt a faint sadness at that; he missed the old man, deeply, and he hoped that he was going down the right road. He didn't want to let it be another mistake...

"Stormyr Dyer?" He looked up over the page he wasn't reading, and stared at the doorway, confused. He'd taken over the common parlor, confident that he'd be left alone...safe for the tall man in white. All white, too; bleached white leathers that had to have been horrendously expensive, his long blond hair tied back in a braid not unlike his own. He closed the diary, slipped it into its oilskin, and put that in the bag at his feet, then stood up, a little uneasily. The man must have sensed it, for he hastened to take a step forward, offering his hand in the western style of greeting. "My apologies, Mr. Dyer. I didn't mean to bother you, but I believe you are the man I've been looking for." His eyes must have widened in confusion, because the other man sighed and smiled sheepishly. At least his grasp of the trader tongue was nearly accentless. His own accent was thicker, but because of the way the priest had taught him, his diction was perfect; he only slipped into the slang around Mikka.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet; she's been waiting a long time for you."

"I...do not understand."

"Please, come outside with me. I guarantee that it will be a good thing." He sighed for a moment, then squared his shoulders and pulled the bag up onto his uninjured one. He wondered who this man was as they passed through the inn, for the innkeeper and his wife smiled brightly and gave him little bows of immense respect, and the children stood patiently in awe of him, lighting up and fair dancing in place when he ruffled first the boy's, then the girl's hair. But that someone was looking for him? His mother had supposedly died in gaol; his closest friends were out at the bazaars, happily spending their new wealth on new mounts and remounts, tack, and armor and weapons. He was the only one sitting in his shabby brigandine and brooding about the past.

"What have I to do? Please, lead on." It was a short walk out into the sunlight, and bright though it was, Stormyr couldn't mistake the two white horses in the courtyard. Both were slim, built for speed and stamina...and to his surprise and delight, one seemed to take to him immediately, nuzzling close enough that he could look into her...blue...eyes...He fell, headlong into an embrace unlike any other he'd ever felt, every grief and sorrow he'd ever felt melting in the enormous love that encircled him, grounded him...and held him in the highest of regards...and love.

 _:Stormyr, my dearheart, I Choose you...Oh, your arm!:_  His attention belatedly settled back on his shoulder, and he stroked the horse's...no, Catrea's neck, soothing her, a smile smoothing the lines on his young face.

"It's nothin', my lady; it'll be healed soon enough..." The blond man chuckled, and settled over his own Companion's withers, idling scratching the stallion's neck.

"Catrea's been in a right state since we started out on this road to find you; my own Olli was getting to where he wanted to plant a hoof at your backside for making him deal with her. Well, Cat, does he fit the role we've been looking for?" Watching her bob her head up and down, Stormyr had to laugh a little, though the thread of unease made his stomach curdle a little again.

"Role? What role?" Bright blue eyes turned his way, and he heard a chuckle in the back of his mind.

_:The role of the King's Special Messenger, of course.:_

* * *

_:Still thinkin' ya got th' wrong 'un.:_

_:And I'm thinking that I'm right. If Olli and the others had their say, they'd agree, and tell you to give up, my love.:_  Stormyr rolled his eyes as Catrea stepped primly through the muddy morass that was the road to Valdemar. He'd never even visited this wondrous country, save through Cat's memories, and a few of those, he didn't quite believe. Really, a King who would, willingly, talk to the lowest of his subjects? About something so mundane as bollborers? Not possible...  _:It is too!:_

 _:Would ya keep outta my head? Aye, I love ya, but I ain't gonna go ta yer precious Valdemar iffen ya don't! My men would still faller me, and my horse's waiting in the trader's paddocks.:_  She startled at his growled mind-voice, and turned to look up at him, blue eyes wide and slightly incredulous. Olli's rider...Herald, he had to remember that Genn wasn't just an ordinary traveler, turned in his saddle to look back at them, breaking into laughter at Stormyr's angry, stubborn face. Genn and Olli made their way back to the Trainee, and Genn clapped Stor on the shoulder.

"Olli gave me the gist of what she said, and so I thought I'd let you in on a little bit of a secret we Heralds know." Stormyr quirked an eyebrow. "Your Companion is just that; your partner, your friend, your confidant. What they are  _not_  are masters; you'd do well to remember that, Catling. And your Herald looks to be a fair bit more stubborn than your instructors ever were. Stormyr, I did want to ask you, though; we've been on the road a week now, as Herald and Trainee. I know I explained roughly what it is we do in Valdemar, and what duties you'll likely be given once we make it back to Haven. Since it's a good six moons to Valdemar, even on Companions, I asked permission that your Internship and classes be counted towards this journey; by the time we walk into Haven, I intend for you to be ready for your Whites. But I need to know, to a nicety, exactly what you know. About Valdemar, I knew we'd be teaching you most everything, but everything else is little more than Peligiris mist to me." Stor pondered Genn's words, nodding despite his nagging doubts that this was still a mistake, and sighed, drawing himself upright in the saddle. He smiled, just a little; he was still taller than his mentor, though Genn was hardly more than two years older than he, and it was rather funny that for the first time in his life, he was bigger than a teacher. He sighed faintly, brows furrowed.

"...Of language, I know two with ease, and another with enough of a grasp to not look like a total fool. Of weapons, I know the sword, long and short, horsebow, javelin, and sling. I've been taught mapmaking, some leatherwork, sewing, and know the arts of both creating dyes and the dying itself. I am a passable salve-maker and fletcher, and know how to bandage wounds. Of cultures, I know nothing of northerners and their ways; this is the farthest my feet have traveled since I began riding with the traders five years ago." Genn and Olli both heaved a sigh of relief; Catrea responded when he looked confused, her voice subdued.

_:They are happy that you don't need to be taught how to survive. Just history and language lessions, I think, and some legal things you need to know. But mostly, you'll be a messenger.:_

_:A...Special Messenger, right?:_

_:Exactly so. We have a great need for a Herald with knowledge of the cultures outside of our borders, and since you have traveled so much, especially in the southern regions, you know what to look for that we might not even consider. You will have to know about Karse and Rethwellen, and probably Hardorn as well...it's going to be a long ride...:_

_:Why's it gonna take so long? All th' maps say three moons, if we was traveling wit' a train.:_  He had to chuckle at her sigh, and reached down to scratch her mane. She arched her neck in wordless pleasure, and took her time in answering.

_:Because Genn wants to make sure that we have you completely prepared. Once we set foot in Haven, you and I will be in high demand; King Kyril is up to his eyeballs in small dukedoms and kingdoms wanting to join Valdemar, and the normal postal routes are completely and utterly packed with highborn messages.:_

_:Highborn?:_

_:Our slang for the wealthy folk, the Counts and Dukes and Councilers. Master Craftsmen, Guildmasters, essentially everyone possessing a great deal of money and wealth from family pocketbooks. Some folk have come into their wealth within just their lifetimes, and for the most part, are good, humble folk...but some others aren't quite so engaging. We will be running a Herald's Post, save that our duties are to be used for the Crown exclusively. Now, if we are in a village where one of the local folk need a letter or two delivered, and our destination is the next village over, then we'll likely simply take the letters on as a normal Herald and allow news to travel as fast as possible. But when the King has an important document that absolutely requires his attentions, then it is our duty to ensure its delivery...no matter the danger.:_  She must have felt his shiver, because he had the sense that a warm arm was clasping his shoulders.  _:Worry not, Chosen; if you don't feel that you're up to this, then we will find another position for you, no less important. Not every Herald has the strength to endure that role; for that matter, not every Companion can handle that amount of strain.:_

 _:But you can?:_ He felt vaguely ashamed; she was perfectly willing to dive headlong into this dangerous business, and he was so cautious it was almost laughable.

_:I can. It was Rolan who suggested that I might be best suited for such. You noticed when you first saw me that I was built for speed, correct?:_

_:Oh, aye, that I did. Yer about the most beautiful lady I ever met.:_

_:Oh, thank you, my dear, thank you...even if I am covered with mud up to my withers. I'm also built for stamina and endurance; what Olli can do in short distances, I can do for hours. I'll be utterly useless afterwards, but in emergancies, I'm priceless.:_

_:You're not useless, Catling.:_

_:Mm...Well, no matter what, you and I are a team, no matter where we end up. If you want to be a plain old Herald, then I'm perfectly happy with that. If you want to be the Messenger...then I'm behind you, all the way.:_ Catrea purred up at him, mimicking her nickname, and he smiled.  _:Besides...you're a handsome Herald; I know a few stallions whose mindmates are of the female persuasion...:_  He coughed in surprise, and winced away from  _those_ little thoughts. Not that the ladies she sent images of weren't pretty, but...well...he just wasn't the kind of man who cared for womanflesh! His reluctance to even look at them seemed to pique her curiosity, and she startled as she followed his train of thought, though it was with a laugh, not a sneer of disgust.  _:Oh, goodness! I'm sorry, Chosen! Now, if you'd told me_ that _little tidbit, I would have done a little more research the other way!:_ He laughed a little at her, feeling incredibly sheepish, and suddenly glad that he could Mindspeak with his Companion. He couldn't imagine having to have a conversation like that aloud, even if it was only Genn and Olli.

_:...I've ne'er put too much thought ta it, Catling. Th' traders were ne'er too open wit' themselves, an' my men preferred th' wenches. Was forest-born, m'self, so ne'er had lotta folk around ta get used ta that sorta thing.:_

_:Tell me about your forest; I'd like to visit it with you some day...:_  As the day passed in a warm, if muddy fashion, Stormyr found himself opening up more and more to the beautiful creature beneath him, and soon enough, began doing the same with the man who was so patient and kind with his questions...


	3. Chapter 3

_:He's picking up on the language well.:_  Genn glanced over at where Stormyr was sounding out Valdemaren, clearly being coached by his Companion. The young man sat easily in the saddle, his brow furrowed over dark green eyes, long black hair even longer now. It had been two months since they'd set out from the Anduras Faire; they had stayed a full month in order for Stormyr to fully heal and win over the Healer's approval, and for him to get his men safely to another caravan, under a friendly fellow that Genn knew quite well from the man's brief excursions into his family lands when he'd operated up in Rethwellen. They were making good time, though; the Throne City had passed in a flurry of silver hooves a week ago, and they were due in to Mournedealth before the end of the next two days. The local lands were well what looked like a decent harvest, and there was a bite in the air that warned of winter coming much sooner now that they were truly heading north.

 _:That's the Catling's doing, I believe. She spent the last week working on adverbs alone.:_ He started in surprise.

_:Good god, she's got more dedication than I've ever possessed.:_

_:Well, she has waited a very long time for her Chosen. Speaking of which, stop worrying about him stealing away the girls; he's_ shaych _.:_ Genn grimaced and scratched the nape of his neck. Trust his Companion to go straight to the source of his vanity.

_:Well, with those looks, I couldn't tell which way the pendulum swung.:_

_:Haha, very funny. Better watch yourself; I won't protect you if Catrea comes after you.:_  Olli Sent an image of an enraged mare trampling his Herald, though the effect was rather ruined by the comical screams and the way it looked like it was drawn by a certain Bard who would remain nameless for the time being.

_:I'm stung! Still, I do wonder what use I am. I'm hardly a teacher these days.:_

_:Perhaps not, but Catrea says that you'll be breaking him into the duties anytime now; she wants to get him over the language humps, then he's all yours.:_

_:I'm almost frightened, now.:_

_:Because the lad's into the same sex?:_

_:Haha, no. I've never had a problem with the_ shay'a'chern _, and you know that perfectly well. I'm afraid because I've never done an Internship as the head Herald.:_

_:You'll be alright, Genn. Stormyr's incredibly quick, according to the Catling, and he's already got a very well-rounded ability to make judgements. And for weaponswork, you two are nearly matched; he's a hair better than you, and I suspect that's due to having come straight off a caravan, even if he was injured.:_

_:Not that you can tell. That Healer did an excellant job.:_

_:That she did. Now, let's review the basics of situation assessment and making judgements.:_

_:Must we?:_  He Sent an image back of being buried under all the legalese.

_:Yes, we must. Then it's on to Waystations, Guard Bases, and the proper way to address all the various nobles.:_

_:You hate me, don't you?.:_

_:Not at all, Chosen. Not at all.:_

* * *

Stormyr felt the sweat rolling down his back, soaking the dark shirt and breeches he wore under his steel brigidine, despite the chilly morning air, but ignored it, devoting his attentions to the motions at hand. He had offered a few lessons in return for information on the trade routes to a group of mercenaries wintering over at the inn in Mournedealth. They themselves were having to stay a good deal longer than expected due to some problem up in Rethwellen with some sort of trade embargo, and as a way to make a little extra coin, both Herald and Trainee started looking for jobs that suited their talents. Genn was at the moment acting as a personal groom to one of the Fifty Houses, his Companion and Catrea both sitting pretty in the inn's stable, and he was acting teacher to two mercenaries old enough to be his father. They came at him together, rather than singly; that was the goal of this particular exercise, so he could show them a particularly brutal disarm that changed the odds on a single fighter from impossible to possible. It could only be used once, though, because afterwards, your arms hurt so much that you could barely lift your sword, let alone repeat it. With a shout, he locked one blade with his shield, the other with his own sword, and pushed off of the fence post that was pressing into his back. His momentum offset his opponents, and with a roar of triumph, he forcibly  _shoved_  both of them, lashing out with the flat of his blade to lay a harsh tap on both helms, his feet carrying him to the other side of the empty paddock.

"And that, friends, is something that you must only do when you have no other method to protect yourself." His accent was crisp but professional as he watched both men came up staggering, but bearing bright grins under their shaggy beards and mustaches as he tore off his own helm, shaking the long braids down out of their top knot. He'd redone his hair up Shin'a'in style when they'd first come here, and to his surprise, it was immensely more comfortable, and he resolved to keep the braids in as long as he could; no reason to give up such good padding before he had to.

"Aye, lad, we be figgerin' that. Yer a good 'un, boyo; fancy takin' a turn as student?" He chuckled, and hanging his helm off his belt, set about to redoing the knot.

"I would take your offer, but I'm afraid it's nearing noon, and my partner will be back; I must take my leave of you gentlemen." That earned him a gruff sigh from one and a kind laugh from the other, and he followed them out of the paddock, turning towards the stables as he hailed both his Companion and the senior Herald, the latter stepping off of a riding coach while the former tossed her head and whinnied a welcome.

"Heyla, Herald!"

_:Ready for lunch, Catling?:_

"Stor! What's for grub, I'm starving!" Stormyr laughed and made his way into the warmth of the inn's stable, welcoming his lady with a soft kiss on her nose and a purloined apple, a little wrinkly, but seasoned liberally with sugar from the cook that he'd kept safe in the belt pouch at his hips. As she purred in his mind, slurping happily, he tossed the second to Genn to give to Olli, who immediately made off with it and pressed his forehead into the Herald's chest for scratches as he munched.

"I haven't the faintest idea, but it smells heavenly." He replied, closing his eyes in appreciation for their cook's impressive skill, and he caught a smirk in his direction as he did so.

"Unlike you, I see."

"As if you smell any better. Who was the pampered pet this time? A lord or a lady?" They spoke Valdemaren out here, where it was relatively safe, and Stormyr marveled faintly at his mastery. Not three moons ago, he was struggling and sounding out every single syllable; now, he spoke it well, with only the occasional odd turn of phrase. He felted Catrea's warm chuckle sound in the back of his mind.

 _:I'm partly to blame for that, I'm afraid. Remember all those dreams you had?:_  As he thought back to them, he threw her a sigh.

_:Tiring wench.:_

_:Yet you love me so.:_

_:Aye, that I do, that I do...Well, I'm off to a bath.:_

_:No amorous company tonight?:_  His eyes darkened, just a little, and she hastened to apologize, but he shook it away.

 _:It wouldn't help, even if there was any. I'd rather trouble a few nights alone than a night of mistakes. Again.:_  She winced away from that, and so did he; neither of them cared to remember the minstrel who'd lured Stor to his bed, then left him drugged and stripped of everything he owned. Genn had caught the little rat, and he was resting his heels in gaol, but it didn't much help the blow to his pride and reputation, tiny as it was. That's why he'd taken up training the mercenaries; no few of them despised minstrels, tolerating Bards due to their status and skill. At least there, they didn't blame him for a pair of beguiling brown eyes...

"Stormyr?" A long hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he hastened to grin down at the blonde, who looked a little confused, though obviously understanding that he'd drifted off in conversation with his Companion. "Cook's got our meal done; feel up to eating, then a long stint in the baths?" He sighed and gave Cat a final scratch, then chuckled and nodded.

"I'm sorry, I was meandering. Yes, that would be wonderful." With that, they sidled into the common room, Genn waving for one of the servers, a young man with sandy blond hair and a welcoming smile under a spattering of freckles who matched the innkeeper to a T. Stormyr smiled as he sidled off with their order and began popping off his armor, loosening the straps enough to yank it over his head, taking most of his shirt with it. Were he in a normal inn, he would have suffered the stifling heat; a merc place, however, didn't mind nearly so much, and as he pulled his shirt back down, hiding his scarred, wiry body from the public eye, he laughed at the catcalls and whistles. "I'm not givin' ya a show, gents, I'm jus' easin' th' heat!" He hollered back in trade tongue. As the calls died down to a decent murmur of conversation, he turned back to his senior and grinned, knowing how askew and roughed up he looked. There was a scrape or two on his face; one from a sword's pommel, the other from his helm digging in, and bruises all over. Genn just shook his head, though he didn't deny that he probably smelled worse. He'd spent all day in a lord's gambling den, wreathed in cigar smoke and the occasional underworld drug or two, and by the end of the morning, he'd been ready to call it quits.

Their food came as his thoughts ground to a halt, lured by the promised bath, and with equal fervor, both men demolished the meals, drinking a great deal of the bitter, tasty ale that the brewer down the street sold through this inn and a few others. It was utterly delicious, and by the time they both sat back, the sad remains could barely be scraped off, and both waistlines were immensely tighter than they had been. Almost as twins, they rose from the bench, Genn with his cloak and Stor with his armor, and made their way to their rooms, taking a moment to toss a few coppers at the bathhouse boy and buy a bar of soap apiece. Making short work of their clothing, they slid into the tubs, content to soak. They had two candlemarks free; it would be a cold rinse, but it was worth it, because it left both Heralds alone and allowed for a conversation of a different sort to be focused on. Genn glanced over at his Trainee, and dropped a shield to reach for him via Mindspeech, poor as his with humans was.

 _:Stormyr?:_ A start, and the other man stared over at him, then answered in kind.

_:Aye, Genn?:_

_:I need to speak to you about the incident with the minstrel.:_ He winced, but Genn stopped him with a hand, eyes still focused on him _. :It's not about your involvement, or rather, it's not about what you did that night; the little rat-faced bastard apparently was sent by one of the Houses to try and seduce both of us. Obviously, I was a little too charmed with the wenches, but when he caught your eye, he was sure to get into your head enough to leave you feeling guilt-ridden and responsible. Neither of which you deserved to be. My employer is a good man, but the men he spends his leisure hours with are not; they are convinced we're here to deal with some family feud that flared up. We need to leave with the night; there's a Guard who will let us out, since we are Heralds, but not after midnight. After that, it'll be cold camps until we get to Petras.:_

_:By then, the snows will have passed, right? And what about the embargo?:_

_:Yes, but for a while, we'll be camping in them. We don't dare the inns again; there's already talk of rounding us both up, you for being_ shaych _, me for being a panderer. I'd suggest that you let your men know that we've had an emergancy call up north; the embargo will have to accept that, since Rethwellen's been an ally of Valdemar's for years now, albeit in trade only. And if all else fails, then straight up throught the Pelagirs, and with any luck, the Hawkbrothers won't take it out of our hides.:_ He hated to bother the young man with all this, but after this morning...no. He would not allow his Trainee to be hurt again like that. Not when Stormyr was the kindest person he'd ever met, including all the Heralds, and every Healer. He resolved to protect the youngster, and with a sigh, he unbound his hair. _:Now, let's get clean; I'm going to take as long as I can with this bath before we have to deal with the road again.:_ Stormyr nodded, his gaze inward, and Genn sighed, then ducked his head beneath the water, intent on getting every mote of smoke out of it before he left.


	4. Chapter 4

Stormyr winced as the wind picked up a little more, causing his Companion to shiver violently, Sending a wave of pain that clouded his eyes as she stumbled again. She'd injured her foreleg on a bad curve some leagues behind them, and he'd been walking beside her ever since, his boots soaked and feet chilled to the bone while the wind whipped through his cloak. This was a bad section of the trail; despite the map's assurances, the crumbling shale and thick snow made for uneven and uncomfortable footing. He still wondered if they were even heading towards Petras; surely they must be close, since so large a city couldn't be so easily passed. But they'd been traveling through this forest for a couple of weeks, though, and despite her surety that they were alone, he couldn't help but feel watched, like a hawk after its favorite species of field mouse.

 _:I'm sorry, Chosen...:_ He felt her sorrow at causing him pain, and sent a wave of reassurance down their bond.

_:Don't be, Catling. It wasn't your fault those bastards were pressin' us ta go so fast. I shoulda been watchin' better.:_

_:No, Chosen...:_

_:Catling, let's jus' focus on makin' it ta th' campsite Genn told us 'bout. Though, how we're gonna get warm's utterly beyond me...:_  He resolutely pushed thoughts of the other Herald out of his head; he was both angry and upset that Genn had left both of them on the trail alone. He knew why, oh indeed he did; an emergancy had occurred in far off Valdemar, an event of such dire tidings that even he had felt it, resounding down the bond he shared with his Catrea from the bond all Companions shared. Even now, despite his anger, the fear and dread still sat in his stomach, an ache he couldn't get rid of, and couldn't quite entirely ignore it. Genn had said something about the King demanding his return, and after tossing them the map, the rest of the supplies, and his extra arrows, he'd taken off in a dead gallop. Stormyr had looked at Catrea, who given him the equine equivialent of a shrug, and suggested that since they hadn't been summoned, they take a gentler course of action. He hadn't minded at first, but the northern winter had come early, apparently, and right about now, even with supplementing his diet and hers with forage and hunting, he wanted nothing more than a warm bed, warm food, and warm stabling for the exhausted and injured mare. He paused as a particularly horrid wind sent chills straight through him, and suddenly cursed as Catrea stumbled again, this time going down on her knees with a hoarse scream.

_:Catling!:_

_:Stormyr, I think I broke something!:_ Her Mindvoice nearly made  _him_  fall to his knees in agony, and he helped her lay all the way down before glancing around, searching for some way to put up the tent currently strapped to his back...He caught a glimpse of the bowed old tree fifty paces behind him, half-covered in shadows and snow, and caressed her forehead, staring into pain-filled blue eyes.

_:Dammit...Hang on, Catling. There's a willow grove a little behind us. Wait here, and I'll cut a few of the branches for the tent.:_

_:I'm not moving anywwhere, Chosen...:_  She sounded so distant, and he felt sickened when he caught the sight of her leg, clearly broken at the ankle, the bones pressing against her skin. He took off at a dead sprint, thankful that the snow had been broken in their passing, and that the skies were only spitting it out at the moment, rather than blustering like earlier. Out came his dagger as he skidded to a halt before the tree, and after a few moments of curses and half-frozen counting, he had eight long switches, devoid of even the hardest buds, and he bundled them close, making his way back to his poor Companion...when he realized that they weren't alone. A tall figure stood above his fallen lady, wrapped in a long white cloak, his silver hair a stark contrast to dark skin. Blue eyes, the same shade as Catrea's, surveyed him over a scarf wrapped tightly around the lower half of his face. Those eyes narrowed, and Stormyr made his way closer, one hand freeing itself to rest on his sword's hilt, despite how strangely it rested at his hip, rather than over his back.

_:Catling...:_

_:He's angry, Chosen. He blames you for this...:_

_:I don't care who he blames, but should he lay a finger upon you...:_

_:I am no such monster, young man.:_ This Mindvoice was cool, collected...ancient as the trees around them, and angry as well. Stormyr stood his ground, dropping the willow switches and drawing his sword.

_:Then why do you terrorize my Companion? She is injured, I am trying to help her!:_

_:So, you erect a shelter and leave her outside it? Hope that she might survive?:_

_:NEVER!:_ The roar startled him, as it did the stranger, and a cool respect filled those expressionless eyes. He surveyed Stormyr once more, then motioned with one hand...and the forest erupted into an organized chaos, as several dozen men leapt out of trees, from around the rocks, from the very snowbanks. All of them converged on the Herald and Companion, shock making it pathetically easy to disarm him before binding his arms behind his back, and the man reached out, touching his forehead lightly, right between his eyes.  _:Sleep, white-clad stranger, and we shall take the measure of your true character...:_  With that, Stormyr blacked out entirely, lost in the darkness of a winter storm.

* * *

 _:Chosen?:_  The plainative tone and soft touch of his Companion's nose woke Stormyr with a start, and he found himself face to face with Catrea, her long leg wrapped in a neat cast, her body curved around his and sitting upright. He reached over and embraced her neck, taking comfort in the smell of warm horse and a soft mane.  _:Stormyr...:_

 _:I thought I lost you...:_  She nosed him back gently and nuzzled his hair, whuffing hot, hay-scented breath against his neck.

 _:You would have known that, Chosen. We would have been in the Havens together.:_  Her simple words soothed him, and he let her go carefully, levering himself up into a crouch, surveying the...cave? He stared at the cool stone overhead, suddenly confused, and looked back at the Companion, who tossed her head and whuffed out a sigh.  _:We're being watched.:_ He shoved his long, unbound hair out of his face, eyes wary.

_:D'you know who they are?:_

_:I have a suspicion, but nothing more. I'm...I'm not quite all here, Chosen.:_ He sighed, and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

 _:I figgered. Try'n rest; I'm gonna try an' talk 'em outta somethin' ta eat.:_ He stood, swaying a bit as he overbalanced, then took a few steps forward, still feeling dizzy and overstrained, something he remembered Catrea talking about when they'd rested in Mournedealth. But his Gifts were mediocre at best; Mindspeech strong enough to do both parts of the Truthspell and Farsight, but nothing more. Catrea had hinted at being able to boost his abilities, but like her speed and endurance, it would leave her the next thing to unconcious. And though he wished now they'd simply taken the trade roads after all, he wouldn't wish that on her. Glancing down at himself, he swallowed nervously; these clothes were far better than anything he'd ever worn, and touching the fabric of his shirt, he took in a shaky breath. Silk, unless he was really as delirious as he thought he was, and supple calfskin breeches. He was, however, barefoot, and the chill of the cave floor woke him out of his daze, and made him move much faster. He made his way across the smooth floor and rounded a curve, only to fall flat on his rump again when an avalanche of yelping, yipping puppies swarmed over him. Several climbed up on his chest and used his head as a springboard, while the rest began to play tug-of-war with his clothing and fingers. Carefully, since they really weren't much more than a few weeks old, he eased each puppy off and tried to stand again...only to fall against the wall as what was presumably their  _mother_  stalked over, her lip lifted.

 _:Human, you had best head back to your steed; I will not save you should the mothers see their cubs with you.:_  That Mindvoice was _strong_ , so strong, in fact, that it almost compelled him back to Catrea, his stumbling feet moving on their own accord, not his. The beast's shoulder stood easily at his hip; from the front, she looked to be an enormous wolf...but along her sides, she was as rangy lithe as any grass-cat.  _:A_ kyree _...:_  Catrea's eyes were as wide as his, and she dipped her head respectfully, earning a look from the  _kyree_ ; she responded in kind, then turned amber eyes back to Stormyr.  _:Here is safe; Lightwing will be back soon. I am tasked with caring for the children, but I will open myself to some questions, if you will use Mindspeech.:_  She settled on her haunches, eyes locked on his. She was all white, save for a dark pattern of gray on her back, and a few scars across her muzzle and ears. Stormyr blinked, then glanced at Catrea.

_:She is safe, Chosen. I have sensed her, but I have not yet had the opportunity to speak with her.:_

_:So now you both do. Speak; I do not have a great deal of leisure time.:_

_:Where are we? How long have I been asleep? Who healed Catrea?:_

_:Ah, a youngster. You are in the Frostveil Caves, outside of Zalmoa, Valdemar. You traveled here via litter, courtesy of the Hawkbrothers who cast you into slumber. You have been unconcious for nearly a week, healing from severe hypothermia. Our Healer, Kyrrl, Healed both you and your lady; your body was shutting down, so we had to focus on you first while the Hawkbrothers brought the mare in. I must admit, you are tougher than you appear; you fought the compulsions with more will than you were granted, and for that, I apologize.:_

_:How far are we from the Valdemaren border?:_

_:Four days travel, two if you skirt through the forest. I would not advise this; there is a firm, well-known game trail that leads to the town. But in any case, it is a whiteout outside, so even we cannot leave the caves for fear of becoming lost. Give the world a week to settle; winter is half-done here, and in that seven days, the blizzard will fade, and the snows will begin to melt. Then, you may set forth.:_

_:...Thank you.:_

_:You are welcome, though I suspect that you'll feel differently after the Tayledras return.:_

_:How so...?:_

_:Those of k'Verei are rather...protective. They do not appreciate those who trespass, even unknowingly. Lightwing, however, followed you until you crossed into_ our _territory, and by the laws and treaties, he cannot stay you, only interrogate. He will be harsh, and probably very cruel; he does not hold most Outlanders with respect. Least of all when they smell of the far south, of blood and war. I suspect you have an explaination; please, save it to use on him. Kyrrl has seen your heart and declared it true, and that is enough for the_ kyree _.:_  Her ears perked up, and she nosed the air.  _:They have returned. I must leave you and take the children back to their mothers. Remember what I said; they cannot harm you, and would not dare. Our elder will be with you.:_  With that, the  _kyree_  slipped away, leaving man and mare to stare at one another, the air between them charged with nervousness.

_:Dare we...?:_

_:Don't think that's a good idea, pretty lady. Let's just...wait here. We can't do anything more for now.:_

* * *

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE HAVENS DO YOU MEAN, YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE THEY ARE?" Amily winced as her father's bellow echoed through the palace, and edged closer to Mags, Lena mirroring her movements with Bear.

"Sounds like Nikolas's fryin' sommun..." Mags commented laconically, his clever hands weaving another bracelet out of Dallen's hair for Amily, since hers had frayed to pieces from the constant worrying she'd done just a year ago. She winced again at his comment, and sighed, her own hands busy braiding ribbons for a cousin's baby.

"You're not far off from that, from what Father's told me. You probably don't know him, but Herald Gennof and his Companion Olli set out almost a year ago with a Companion who hadn't yet chosen to find her Herald. Word has it that when everything came to a head up here, Genn and Olli raced off to Valdemar...and left the new Herald Trainee to make his way up alone. Now, they can't find them, and even though he's one of the Heads of the Heraldic Circle, Father's just now found out. He hasn't been able to corner Genn until now..." Bear huffed out a tired laugh and pulled his lenses off, setting the herbs he'd been grinding to the side. The foursome had taken refuge in Amily and Nikolas's front room; the King's Own was a floor above them, in the Herald's wing, probably in the hapless Herald's room. Nikolas, in spite of the stresses he was under, truly did not get angry that often; it took monumental amounts of stupidity to induce  _this_  much yelling. As the Healer trainee rubbed his eyes, Lena played a comic flourish on her lute, eliciting a few more smiles and lightening the air.

"Why don't we go out and visit Dallen? I'm sure he'd welcome the hot pies from the kitchen."

 _:Tell Lena that she gets a free ride in the snow.:_  Mags laughed out loud at Dallen's eagerness and he nodded, standing up and offering his hand to Amily. Her leg was healed, but she still limped a little; she could ride normally now, however, and had been making great strides in strengthening her legs with daily rides out in Companion's field with either Dallen or the young Companions.

"Dallen says ta bring 'im a couple o' pies, an' 'e'll letcha ride fer a while." Lena squeaked and grabbed Bear by the arm, dragging the lanky young man out as he laughed, while Mags and Amily followed at a statelier pace, pulling all four cloaks down and pulling theirs on before they ventured out into the drafty halls. As the four youngsters made their way down to Companion's stable, where Dallen was waiting patiently, Nikolas glared down at the young blonde sitting before him, and sighed.

"Dammit, Genn, you know better than to hare off like that, and leave a newly Chosen with his Companion alone on the roads."

"But, he's..."

"I'm well aware that he's a skilled swordsman and campaign caravan guard. That does not, however, make him capable of making the journey to a place he's never even seen before with an outdated map and a young Companion whose Mindspeech is hardly strong enough to be heard over a league, let alone an entire country. You were his teacher and mentor; you will be penalized for this, and I expect the utmost dedication to the tasks we give you for the next two years. After that, you may go on Circuit, but you will not be allowed to mentor until you've proven to us that you're ready to." Gennof looked heartbroken, and Niko felt Rolan's presence in his mind.

 _:I'd say you were harsh, Chosen, but I'd be rather a hypocrite. Tell him that he can come do some stable cleaning for awhile; then he and his Companion can shovel out the old temple out in the field.:_  Niko hid a smirk with difficulty, and nodded to Genn.

"You and your Companion will spend the rest of the week cleaning out both stables, and the temple in Companion's field. I will be checking in." He turned on his heel and let the door close with a slam, then made his way back to his suite. There, he had to smile a little at the array of hobbies the children had left, presumably when he started yelling. Mag's bracelet for Amily, the braided ribbons, Bear's set-aside herbs, Lena's harp left forgotten on the chair. He left them where they were; he didn't mind the kids coming in to keep warm and spend time together, especially because all four of them were not the kind to wreck havoc on a household, and truth be told...he was happy that Amily had friends, and a love to devote her attention to. It made him a little sad, remembering what he'd had before, when it was just the two of them...but it also made him feel less worried, less likely to stress over her when his attention had to be elsewhere. A Bard, a Healer, and a Herald and his Companion...she could be no safer in all the Kingdom. Now, however, he had to focus his attention on the missing Herald.

_:Rolan.:_

_:On it, Chosen.:_


	5. Chapter 5

It was nearly a full month later, and with spring coming fast upon Valdemar, when Stormyr and Catrea made their limping, tired way into Haven, mud-drenched, exhausted, and both of them a great deal thinner than when they'd left the  _kyree_  dens. It had been a bad winter in terms of flooding, and the mud that had remained caked on them through the countryside wasn't budging now. Stormyr's sigh was lost in the crowd heading through the southern Gate; he was too tired to even contemplate the sheer size of the city, nor did he care about the heady murmur of noise that floated over the already noisy farmers. He was limping worse than his Companion now; her ankle had healed perfectly, due to Kyrrl's expertise, but she'd taken a bad stone to the hoof about halfway up, and even now, her feet were sore and inflamed. He hated having to push her, but...

 _:I pushed myself too hard, dearheart. I'm more worried about you...that leg's not doing well.:_  He winced, but hugged her neck close; in spite of her demands, he'd walked from Kettlesmith on up, determined not to put any more pressure on her. The downside had been navigating the Snake Bends of the Terilee, for a caravan had forced the pair off into the marshlands, where the young Herald-Trainee had slipped, fallen...and promptly stabbed himself in the leg with a stick. Now, the wound was slowly going septic; he'd cleaned it as best he could, but all that he could do was make for Haven, and pray he made it to the House of Healing in time. He settled with the crowds and eased into the quiet pace...when Catrea grunted, and strong teeth caught the back of his leather gambison. Stormyr was lifted up off his feet and swung around, landing half in the saddle as he scrambled to find purchase before the mare took off at a brisk canter.  _:I've had enough of this! I'll not see my Chosen come down with fever and flux simply because he's too damned stubborn to listen to me!:_

With the ease of a veteren campaigner, she slid through the crowds like a silver-white eel, zigging and zagging through trade markets, busy shop stalls, and finally, the avenues and lush gardens of the rich, winding up to the final wall that separated the teeming masses from the Palace proper. Of course, Stormyr only knew all of this from the Companion's memories, and so the view his eyes were telling his mind was quite a bit different from the flat, distorted sideways view his memories were say was true. Nevertheless, the wall was quite impressive, standing a spectacular four stories, and the dark blue-clad guard at the gate came forward warily, eyeing the tall, dusty stranger dressed in dark brown leathers, comfortably astride the equally tall Companion.

"Name and occupation, sir?" Stormyr coughed, a rusty grin touching his face before he sobered, deep green eyes fatiqued as he met the guard's.

"Herald Stormyr, sir. Special Messenger."

* * *

King's Own Herald Nikolas pounded down the stairs, pushing highborn and low out of his way as he tore through the Great Hall, completely ignoring his King and Prince to hasten to the summons from the guard at the gate. Thanks be to all the gods, their lost Herald had finally made his way home, caked in blood and mud, wounded and clearly exhausted. Someone from Healer's had already taken over the scene; as Nikolas burst through the doors, he was thankful to see that it was Mag's friend Bear, who was seeing to the Herald's injured leg himself, tearing at the armor carefully as he grilled the young man as to how he got his wound.

 _:A nasty stab from a stick in the Snake Bends, Chosen.:_  His Companion, Rolan, stepped close, nudging his arm with his nose and sighing.

_:Damn. Poor kid. At least he'll have the best that the Palace has for Healing and herblore. His Companion?:_

_:Mildly lamed, but she will be fine as well. They need rest, Chosen; if you send them out on that errand before they've healed, I will personally invade your suite and kick you to the Havens.:_ Nikolas winced and bowed his head to the stallion, one hand reaching up to ruffle that silken mane as he leaned into his best advisor's neck.

_:Aye, aye, old friend. I suspect the Healers would stage a coup and topple my ego with a particularly nasty little bug of theirs. As for the errand, Mags, Dallen, and the rest of the Kirball team are running it to Master Soren's estate as we speak.:_

_:Good, because I'd have done it myself it you hadn't sent them.:_ The stallion heaved a second sigh, and nuzzled his Chosen's hair, his Mind-voice rueful.  _:So young...and so soon to be out on the road again. The first of a kind...:_

 _:We need them, Rolan. Without the Special Messengers, how on earth will we manage all the new kingdoms and lands joining us? Without a reliable means of communication, we've nothing! And Mindspeech cannot reach to such lengths, not the sort we all have. Not even Mags and Kiril's is strong enough to span the country. I hate it as much as you do, but at least this way, the younglings who've never spent months asaddle aren't thrown into the fray without training, and this one_ has _the experience he needs to survive...:_

 _:And after this, there is little he will fear. I see your point, Chosen...just...let them rest. Let them heal, else we're in the same predicament as before.:_ Niko's blood chilled further, and he bit back an expletive, closing his eyes to the old pain. Viena had been young, but brilliant asaddle, and positively a genius at the messenger work; her Companion, Harli, had shared her Chosen's passions wholly, and the two had made the expansion of Valdemar so much smoother that Niko had taken her reports for granted...until they suddenly stopped. The day after they were due a report, the Death Bell had tolled...and grief had overwhelmed the Herald's Wing for months afterwards, guilt and anger at the bandits who'd desecrated both Herald and Companion leading to a swift, brutal attack, led by her own mentor.

Jakyr had never been the same after that, and it had shown when he'd brought Mags in almost three years ago. Thankfully, the young Trainee had healed some of that wound unconsciously, giving Jakyr a friend and comrade, rather than another tie to strain the Herald's already battered heart and mind. The King had felt it too, and after Niko's suggestion to prepare Mags for the job he'd taken up, had made it clear to the elder Heralds that the boy, and every other Trainee, Heraldic or no, was not to be treated to the abuses given him when he'd first come to the Collegium. It'd been heartening to see Jakyr's blatant approval, and that alone had helped turn several others to their side.

Now, though...he didn't know what to make of this new Trainee...Herald. He was a full Herald now, if his Companion's assertions were correct, and in spite of the testing that would have to be done, Nikolas believed it as he watched the litter carry the young man away. He was certainly exotic to the Northern Kingdom; that much, he could never hide, but his dusky skin, a natural tan, long, raven-black hair, and startling green eyes would attract quite a few attentions. He was muscular and willowy, and standing up, he would clearly be taller than most everyone, including Bear. Calloused hands, a long scar down the side of his face, almost bisecting his eyelid, and the calm, if quiet way he was speaking through what had to have been immense pain all added up to one conclusion, and that was that this young man, for whatever else his faults, was no stranger to the dangers of life on the road.

He'd been a little worried that 'caravan guard' in the South meant 'cushion job'; if this was what one freshly out of boyhood looked like, then he paled to think of what his elders might have for scars. But maybe there weren't many old men in this job; most mercs and guards left by the time they were twenty-five, maybe thirty; from Olli, they'd learned that he'd been such a guard for five years, and had traveled all but about three months in all that time. He looked it, too; there were deep, near permanent bags under his eyes, and a lean look to him that suggested he hadn't had quite all the meals a growing boy needs. Too much like Mags, now that he thought about it...

But not as bad as Mags, and in spite of his accent, he had mentioned knowing at least three languages outside of the Tradespeech, and Valdemaren made four. That alone was invaluable; there were precious few multilingual Heralds, the most of which only knew Hardornen and a smattering of Rethwellen. While he was Healing, Niko wondered if he could teach those languages to a few others...

_:That would be no bad thing; his Companion says he is a man who dislikes a great deal of free time. It seems he lost his mother at an early age, and never knew his father. She was nobly-born, however, and he does have the credentials to prove it.:_

_:Even if the family did disown here, he's so far north now that they'll never look for...what were the names again?:_

_:Sienna Gria'tehven. His father was a dyer for the Wool Guild in Altveri; they eloped, were married by a priest, and she took on the name Dyer once her parents disowned her. They moved to the village of Shimmer, and lived in the forest just around it, both making and selling dyes. They passed everything on to their son, and when she was taken, he was adopted by the village and apprenticed to a guard leader. After that...he's fought bandits alone and in a group, he's fought ahorse and on the ground, and he's acted as a messenger between the cities down south before during the lean months.:_

_:And he's an old soul; he knows he's mortal, and that Death can come as swift as an eagle when it chooses. You say he's not much of a Mindspeaker?:_

_:His Companion's about the only one capable of speaking to him, other than a nearby, strongly Gifted Herald. Catrea thinks that he might have a touch of Foresight, but it hasn't developed yet. A touch of Empathy too, but not as much as the Healer's. Mostly, he's a normal Herald...until you look at his physical gifts.:_

_:Long, lean body, endurance, strength, strategic skill...bonded to a Companion who can cross the first half of our country in three days. Your speed is reknowned, old friend...her's is going to be legendary.:_

_:Oh, there's no doubt of that, Chosen. You wonder why she didn't use it to make her way up here, correct?:_

_:Well, they wouldn't have ended up in the Pelagiris Forest otherwise...but yes.:_

_:You know why we don't use those speeds to bring Chosen to Haven very often, correct?:_

_:Something about how need displaces necessity...oh. I understand.:_

_:If she'd done so, yes, they would have made it here with quite a little time to spare. And she would be months, if not years, in recovering. He would be too; just as you can draw from us, we do the same to you. She, and I agree with her, refuses to use that speed unless the Kingdom is truly, well and truly in need. And no order, not from even I, will ever dissuade her of that.:_ He shrugged and shook his mane, turning to face Nikolas with calm, sober eyes.  _:And I will never order her to do so, unless we have no other option. You are my Chosen, my beloved brother...but in this, we as a herd will stand as one. Now, enough of this talk; you've dinner with the younglings, and I've a young mare to take care of. Stormyr will be fine, so long as he can remain in contact with his Chosen.:_  Rolan trotted off under Niko's arm just like that, leaving the King's Own to grin a little, then sigh.

This lad was different than any other youngster they'd taught; nobly born, but raised in poverty as an orphan, intelligent and very learned, and yet also a warrior of no little skill. That it had taken almost two years to find him was an oddity in and of itself, and all that had happened in the time since his Choosing had left everyone in the Collegium and the Palace shaken to the core, unprepared for his arrival. But he'd already made a friend of the Healers, so it seemed, and Niko already had plans to set his young apprentice on the new Herald, for Mags could see a great many of the things even he missed...and besides that, perhaps this Stormyr could fill in the blanks of Mags' own history, if he'd traveled anywhere where Mags might be the norm, not the unusual. If nothing else...then at least the boys had the kinship of being Heralds, and if some of the comments dropped by Genn were any judge, they'd share weaponswork and life asaddle as well. But until then...he had a hearty meal and a mountain of new paperwork to go over, though he did delegate quite a bit to Mags these days, and knowing his young apprentice, there wouldn't even be crumbs left for him to scrape off the plates.

* * *

 _:Chosen, you're about to have a small group of visitors.:_  Stormyr settled the book he'd been reading on his chest and blinked his weary, fogged green eyes up at the window, outside of which his Companion was leaning, her familiar presence more soothing than even the strongest sleeping potions that young man Bear had come up with. In fact, he'd made great strides metaphorically towards healing, and regaining his lost weight, in the fortnight he'd been here. His wound had been...bad. Worse than he'd thought, and it had taken roughly two weeks of constant potions, Healing, and a leech or two to get all of the infection out. It was stitched now, and last he'd heard, was nearly healed, leaving him to build up his strength and weight, though he was still as lean as a young birch tree. His hair had grown as well, reaching now past his hips, and in spite of the 'feminine' length, he chose to keep it. In his country, men and women both wore their hair long, braided and plaited, and in spite of being so neatly abducted to a brand new country, he refused to cut it.

Besides, it was a little vain of him, but he did look good with long hair.  _:You always look good, Chosen. Now, about those visitors?:_  He smiled, and chuckled lightly, his eyes going to the doorway.

"Send 'em in, Catrea." His Valdemaren was still a little rough, but he was quite happy with its development over the time he'd been here. The Healers were quite happy to explain things he didn't understand, when they had the time, and Catrea herself was acting as a happy tutor to both a gaggle of Companion foals and her erstwhile Herald. For he was a full Herald now; once he'd been conscious for more than an hour, he was grilled, tested, and given his Whites by no less than the King and his Herald, Nikolas, as well as the Senechal's Herald, the Lord Marshal's Herald, and a dour-looking older man they called the Dean of the Herald's Collegium. He'd had a rough time with the initial grammar of the questions, but his mathematics, geometry, history, and languages were perfectly sound, and they claimed that his Companion's examples of his weaponswork and navigational skills were beyond sufficient.

"In fact, youngling, other than a little practice needed in writing, you've gained the record of the shortest transition from Trainee to Whites in the last fifty years. King Valdemar, his Heir, and Herald Beltran not withstanding, of course." That had been King's Own Herald Nikolas, and this remarkably unremarkable man had left him with three sets of pure white clothing, one set of traveling leathers in the same hue, and a comfortable cloak with soft blue silk on the underside. These were his spring and summer clothes, or so the man had said; he would get his winter gear when he was healthy enough to go on Special Circuit. They'd spent almost three days explaining his duties over this, how while he was exempt from making judgements and settling conflicts with the exception of special circumstances, he still had to collect reports, make reports, deliver post, and generally act as a courier amongst both the Heralds and the citizens of Valdemar. There was so much he had to do when he was out of this bed...but his first duties walked in the door, and he welcomed the odd crew of younglings with a tentative smile.

The first one was the young Healer Trainee Bear; sleepy-looking and forever pushing his lenses up, Stormyr had warmed to him, reminded deeply of Mikka, minus the energy. The second held hands with him, and from her description, he knew her to be Lena Marchand, Bardic Trainee, and though this was the first time he'd seen her, he had heard her out in the gardens singing and playing her harp for the few elderly Heralds who acted as proctors for the Herald's Wing. The third was another girl, and limped badly, though her warm eyes and deep brown hair resembled Nikolas so completely that they had to be related. He blinked for a moment, then remembered the Herald saying something about his daughter...The fourth however, made his jaw drop, and judging from the young man's expression, he must have felt the same. This boy...he looked so much like the boys and girls in his home village that it took him a moment to realize that he was certainly not in Shimmer, but in Haven...and as he surveyed the lad, he realized that he was much thinner, and much smaller than those children. But those eyes...they matched his own, though their green was a little lighter, with flecks of hazel brightening. They were so old, though...

"Herald Stormyr, this is Lena, Amily, an' Mags, the folks I was tellin' you about." He blinked again, a smile warming his face as he held out his hand for each to shake.

"I apologize fer my starin', younglings. I'm afraid I've been isolated fer so long tha' I'm not used ta younger folk. You, though, Mags; ya look like all the childer in me own home village. Thought fer a moment there you was young Jemmie." Silence fell over the room, and he realized that both young women and Bear were staring at their friend, while Mags' eyes were locked on him. He reached out for the boy, motioning for him to come closer. "Y'don' know who yer parents were, do ya?" His voice was soft now, as everything Nikolas had said came back to him, and he pulled the boy into the chair next to his bed, and motioned for the others to draw close, pulling up the bench against the wall. "Nikolas told me about ya...has he toldja anythin' about me?"

"Nah...'e said nothin', 'Erald..." His accent was thick, but hell, so was Stormyr's, and so emerald eyes caught Mags', smiling faintly.

"Then lemme start askin' 'round. Mebbe nobly born, but twas raised a lot like ya...well, I weren't no mine slavey, but I'm an orphan, same as. So, tell me, younglings, an' mebbe I can help."


End file.
